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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160589">lead with my faith</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger'>hauntedjaeger (saellys)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Academia, Art History, Character Study, Gen, Graduate School, Nile Freeman-centric, Piercings, Team as Family, Undercover Missions, University, mentions of human trafficking, translations in the end note</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:14:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They have just made it through the syllabus and started on actual instruction when, with twenty-five minutes left, the fire alarm goes off. </p><p>“Probably a drill,” says Mercedes. </p><p>“Not on the first day,” Vidal counters. “Some clown pulled the alarm.” </p><p>“Or some clown set a fire,” Mercedes says, cheerfully. </p><p>Nile sighs before she can stop herself. “I wasn’t planning on dying today, and I’d rather not,” she mutters in English. </p><p>Isidra snorts, packing away her things. “You millennials and your gallows humor.” </p><p>Nile lets herself laugh at that, but not as long as she’d like to. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andromache of Scythia &amp; Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani &amp; Nicky | Nicolo di Genova &amp; Nile Freeman, Nile Freeman &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>492</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lead with my faith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For once, Nile’s role in this mission isn’t a short straw situation, but one of benevolent, yet relentless, rationalization. </p><p>The optimal setup is two on the ground, two in reserve. Andy is out of the question. They have the means to pose as graduate students, not professors. Nile tries to imagine Andy sitting placidly in a classroom. It’s not possible. </p><p>When Nile questions why Joe isn’t doing it, Joe folds his hands and lets Nicky answer. “He is the scholar among us. But I have more respect for authority, and won’t stand out by making enemies of my teachers.”</p><p>“I respect authority,” Joe protests. </p><p>“You respect Andy.” </p><p>“Right! Authority.” </p><p>“I’ll make you take that back,” Andy warns. </p><p>“Sorry, boss.” </p><p>So it’s settled. Nile does, at least, get to choose her field of study. She’s on Copley’s couch, scrolling through the options, and she doesn’t realize she’s drawn an eager breath until Nicky looks over. “Find something?” </p><p>She angles the phone so he can see. He smiles and nods, and turns back to the Critical and Emergency Care program description. </p><p>She doesn’t expect him to <em> get </em> it. Out of all of them, Joe would understand her interest, but not the reason her heart rate picks up: the fact that this is a chance to do what she intended to do with her GI Bill. </p><p>She speaks Spanish, which is about to come in handy, as well as French, Arabic, a tiny bit of Pashto, and she’s working on Italian. Even with the monthly withdrawals that arrive in her mother’s mailbox as extremely convincing USMC checks, she has more money than she ever thought she’d see in her life. She can survive anywhere. She has resources she never imagined, access to anything she could want. She has so much <em> time </em>. It robs her breath to think of how much time she has. </p><p>And now she feels a twinge of guilt. The transcript Copley made for her is unimpeachable. Hell, if he wanted, he could just add her and Nicky both to the student database and place them in the classes of their choice. </p><p>But they are constructing reasonably watertight personas, and so a certain amount of playing by the rules is required. Which also means new burner phones, and two fake university websites, just in case someone checks. (Nile checked the one listed on her transcript. She’s pretty sure that’s a young John Boyega in the stock photography.) </p><p>She took the SAT for real, her senior year--the score she is submitting is her own. She’ll be paying tuition. It’s not as though she’s preventing anyone else from getting into the program. Maybe this is only slightly easier than it ought to be for everyone. Maybe if college was free and universal, and didn’t have byzantine bureaucratic admission processes, she wouldn’t feel this guilt. </p><p>She was going to do four full years and maybe beyond, the honest way, if only she hadn’t got caught up in all of this repeatedly saving humanity. </p><p>And of course, she died. The honest way is no longer an option for her. There is a threshold of deceit to every aspect of her life now, a moral slope required just to exist freely in this world. </p><p>She stops herself before she can get morose. This is for the mission, not for her. Nile hands the phone to Copley, and he submits her application. </p><hr/><p>“How long will it take?” </p><p>“My cartilage took maybe fifteen minutes.” Andy wipes down the needle and clamp with rubbing alcohol. “Going through the columella, though, should be faster. Anything fleshy will heal up quick.” </p><p>If Nile is going to do stuff she couldn’t do in the Corps, she might as well go all in. She’s wanted a nose ring for years. </p><p>This is the oldest form of body modification, and Andy has done it thousands of times, to herself and others. She promised Nile she never killed anyone this way, even from infection afterward. Little has changed in six millennia when it comes to technique. Andy feels around for the right spot, clamps it gently, and poises the needle, then looks to Nile. </p><p>Nile shuts her eyes. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>!” She doesn’t remember Andy heating the needle over the stove. She doesn’t remember there being eighty million nerve endings in her septum. She doesn’t remember why she thought this was a good idea. “Put the ring in,” she yelps, gripping the edge of the table. </p><p>“Let it heal around the needle first,” Andy advises. </p><p>“The directions--” </p><p>“The directions are for people who don’t heal like you. Take it out now and the hole will shrink. Do you want to have to do this twice?” Her voice is iron. </p><p>Nile growls in the back of her throat. It’s therapeutic. </p><p>From the other room comes an obnoxious standard ringtone from the dawn of brick phones. Nile cracks one watering eye. Andy pats her back pocket. “Not me.” </p><p>“Shit, damnit,” Joe mutters, digging through the couch cushions. “Hello? Yes, this is Professor Cason.” </p><p>Nile stills, breathing through the pain. </p><p>“Nina Faber? Of course, Philosophy 401, last semester.” He appears in the door to the kitchen, takes one look at Nile with the needle through her nose, and turns back around. “She’s sharp, that one. Her contributions to class discussions were very insightful.” </p><p>Andy mimes buttering a piece of bread, thickly. Nile smiles, which is when she realizes her nose doesn’t hurt anymore. </p><p>“I would highly recommend her. I would go so far as to say--” he turns his head to not quite look over his shoulder, and speaks a little louder--”she will be a credit to your institution. Of course. Thank <em> you</em>.” </p><p>When he hangs up, Nile says, “Your check’s in the mail.” She pulls the needle out, and puts the little curved barbell in through the perfectly healed hole. It’s cold at first--refreshing after the scalding pain of the needle. </p><p>“No payment required for aiding in the pursuit of higher education,” Joe says, joining them at the table once Andy has put the needle in the sharps box. “That looks good.” </p><p>“Thanks.” She fiddles with it in the selfie camera on her phone, tucking it away and down again. She opens her mouth to thank Andy too--but then Andy’s burner rings. </p><p>“Hello? Yes, it’s pronounced Pythian. Nina Faber... yes, I remember her. She never missed class.” Joe makes a what-the-fuck gesture at Andy, hands wide. Andy shrugs at him. </p><p>Nicky comes in the front door, packages under his arm. He sees Andy on the phone and proceeds silently. </p><p>“She’ll make you proud,” Andy adds, without inflection. She hangs up and looks to Nile. “Can’t let them think you’re <em> too </em> good.” </p><p>“Thanks,” Nile says again, more acerbic this time. To be fair, she was similarly reserved when she pretended to be Dr. Jordan for Nicky’s reference the day before. </p><p>“How did it go?” Nicky asks. </p><p>“Fantastic,” Joe tells him, pulling the SIM cards from both burners. </p><p>“That’s a little premature,” Nile says. </p><p>“These came in from Copley.” Nicky sets them on the table. “Your nose looks nice.” </p><p>Inside the smaller package is a key, tagged with an address. Phase one of this job demands that they live in the city, not the nearest safehouse. Inside the larger package is--”A VSCO girl backpack?” </p><p>“I don’t know what that is,” Andy says. </p><p>Joe laughs, “I do!” </p><p>It’s mustard yellow and aesthetic as hell. She turns to Nicky. “Did Copley actually send this, or did he just tell you what brand to buy?” He smiles at her, which is answer enough. “I already have a backpack.” </p><p>As ever, Nicky takes no offense. “Nile, you are about to spend time living a life where you have no reason to carry tactical gear. You were never a soldier. You never died. You can clothe yourself in that.” He <em> would </em> find a way to get deep about a backpack. </p><p>“Also, it’ll look marvelous on you,” Joe says. </p><p>Nicky nods. “I picked the brightest one in the shop.” </p><p>“A rare demonstration of an aesthetic sense. Mark this day--it won’t happen again for decades.” </p><p>Nile’s exasperation melts beneath the warmth of their fondness. “I didn’t get you anything.” </p><p>Nicky shrugs. “Make me something in your ceramics class.” </p><p>“I might not get in,” Nile reminds him. They have contingencies for that, but it will be much easier to pull off phase one with both her and Nicky on campus. </p><p>None of the others dignify that with a response, but the look Joe gives her is one of absolute, unconditional confidence. </p><p>Her acceptance email arrives two days later. </p><hr/><p>“Collections of Paintings: Study, Conservation and Restoration” begins in a lecture hall, arena-style, desks in concentric semicircles descending from a mezzanine where Nile steps through the door. The vertigo she experiences there has nothing to do with the architecture. </p><p>Most of the students are two or three years younger than Nile was when she died. She feels the divide between herself and them acutely, not only in time but in experience. And not the volume of the experience, but the character of it. Is this how Joe and Nicky feel? Is this how Andy feels? </p><p>Nile takes a breath. She is not an impostor. She is both in and of this world. She belongs here. </p><p>She descends about a third of the way down and moves two tables in from the stairs. “Is anyone sitting here?” she asks a steel-haired woman. </p><p>“No,” the woman answers. Her name, Nile learns presently, is Isidra. She’s auditing the class using credit hours her late husband accrued as benefits during his tenure. Isidra married at eighteen, raised four children. Now her house is empty, and she has time to catch up on the interests she set aside for the past forty years. </p><p>Nile tells her as little as she can, at the start. Sí, she is American. Always loved art. Life kind of got in the way, but she was finally able to save up enough to come here. </p><p>As the lecture hall fills, their corner collects a couple more non-traditional students. Vidal is Nile’s age, and compliments her backpack. Mercedes is a couple years older. She dresses as though she already a museum curator.  </p><p>They have just made it through the syllabus and started on actual instruction when, with twenty-five minutes left, the fire alarm goes off. </p><p>“Probably a drill,” says Mercedes. </p><p>“Not on the first day,” Vidal counters. “Some clown pulled the alarm.” </p><p>“Or some clown set a fire,” Mercedes says, cheerfully. </p><p>Nile sighs before she can stop herself. “I wasn’t planning on dying today, and I’d rather not,” she mutters in English. </p><p>Isidra snorts, packing away her things. “You millennials and your gallows humor.” </p><p>Nile lets herself laugh at that, but not as long as she’d like to. </p><p>Her natural inclination is to be the last out of the room, to make sure no one gets left behind, but she picked the wrong table for that so she files out ahead of Isidra like she’s supposed to. Outside on the green, the professor dismisses them; Nile uses the leftover time to case the campus, note the cameras, and check for smoke. </p><p>“There’s no fire,” Nicky says from behind her. </p><p>Nile does not jump. The last couple years have dulled her instincts for self-preservation (and, consequently, flinching) down to almost nothing. Everyone in this family walks like ghosts, and even she has picked up the art, particularly now that she spends the day in Pumas rather than combat boots. </p><p>“How was class?” Nicky asks. </p><p>“I’m old,” she tells him. “God, I’m old. It’s going to be good, though. How was yours?” </p><p>He falls into step beside her. He keeps his books in a classy messenger bag Joe must have gotten him the last time he went to university. “A lot has changed. Any sign of him?” </p><p>“Not yet.” There is a chance, small though it is, that de Soto’s schedule will dovetail perfectly with theirs, and they will never cross paths. “Wait,” Nile says, stopping short and lowering her voice. “Did you pull the fire alarm?” </p><p>His grin is fleeting and puckish. Some clown indeed. </p><p>“Nicky!” </p><p>“It got everyone outside. Let’s go once more around.” </p><p>Nile walks with him, briskly, like the green is meant for laps. “Do you want to go to the basilica on Sunday?” she asks. </p><p>“That would be lovely.” </p><p>They don’t see de Soto--maybe he left early--so they take the Metro back to the apartment. </p><p>It is not at all like their safehouses. Its modern stainless appliances and light wood floors give Nile cognitive dissonance in contrast to the time-worn exposed bricks and dark rafters, original to the building. It came furnished, but it doesn’t have the curios and junk the safehouses accumulated over decades or centuries of sometimes-occupation. Not quite home. </p><p>“Hey!” Joe calls from the couch. “How was it?” </p><p>“Full of babies,” Nile says. “Absolute children.” </p><p>“Same,” says Nicky. </p><p>Joe gets up to kiss Nicky’s forehead and then pull Nile into a hug. “You should come with me next Wednesday,” he tells her. “While I was out sketching I met someone who runs a life drawing group. And…” He lets go of her and straightens, smug as shit. “I was invited to model.” </p><p>“Did they lead with that?” Nile asks. “Creeptastic if so.”</p><p>“No, we talked for quite a while first.” </p><p>Smiling softly, Nicky says, “Still got it, Signor al-Kaysani.” </p><p>“I <em> sure do</em>. When nine hundred years old you reach--” </p><p>Nile groans before he can finish that sentence. Two dozen new likenesses of Joe in the world would be ill advised, especially if the group has any social media presence. He and Andy are the ones who are supposed to be out of sight. “No study buddies” is one of the mission parameters, and even if it wasn’t, Nile has no desire to explain the labrys, longsword, and scimitar resting on hooks in the brick wall, mounted too low and kept too honed to be ornamental. </p><p>“I’m not going if you’re modeling,” she says. Joe looks wounded. “I love you man, but I don’t need that.” </p><p>“And so your light remains beneath a bushel,” says Nicky, patting Joe’s cheek. </p><p>Nile follows them to the couch, and empties her backpack there. She puts in one earbud and pulls up her recording of the first class. There wasn’t much actual content, but Castilian Spanish is different from what she took in high school, and she needs to acclimate to the professor’s accent. </p><p>Joe hands her a page torn from his sketchbook. It’s a map, centered on the apartment with a five block radius of the Barri Gòtic around it. There is an X for every security camera. The clearest route to the Metro station is marked in red biro. Sure, Copley is cleaning up after them, but that’s no reason to get sloppy. She and Nicky both lean in to memorize it. </p><p>They all turn when the door opens. Andy backs inside, arms full of takeaway. “Hey, boss.” Nicky gets up to hold the door. “You want to come to church with me and Nile on Sunday?” </p><p>Andy checks to see how serious he is. “Oh, shit, that’s when I’m going to the cannabis museum. Sorry, Nicky.” </p><p>“There’s a cannabis museum? Nile, I have to cancel.” </p><p>Nile tosses her earbuds onto the coffee table. “Godless heathens.” </p><p>“Mm,” Joe agrees. </p><p>Andy brought tapas, six different dishes, and Joe does something ingenious with the clamshell boxes so the lids nest together with sauces in the middle and they can rotate all of it between them at the kitchen island like a platter.</p><p>It is the most beautiful and communal takeout experience Nile has ever had. She doesn’t let anyone else get a single piece of the fig toast. </p><hr/><p>The ceramics teacher believes in quantity, not quality. The former, she insists, leads to the latter. And she has a point--centering clay on a wheel is the kind of thing you can only do after you have fucked it up many, many times. </p><p>At the end of the first month, Nile has fifty-one pots. Those are just the ones that survived the kiln. Of course her classmates have plenty of their own, and will not accept her gifts. The ceramics studio has beautiful hand-lettered signs on the drying racks: <em> No dejes tus macetas</em>. She brings them to the apartment one long weekend over multiple trips on the Metro in two enormous IKEA bags layered with newspapers. Andy helps. </p><p><em> Now </em> they’ve got curios and junk. Nile runs out of flat surfaces to hold them and small objects to store in them. There is a separate pot for each of their toothbrushes in the bathroom. Pots on the coffee table holding Joe’s biros and 6B pencils and Nicky’s highlighters. </p><p>There are three safehouses within a day’s drive. Joe and Nicky make the rounds with a packed car, but there are still more pots. </p><p>Nile sets three pots aside for Copley and doesn’t let him take fewer. There are still more pots. </p><p>The fine arts department has a fundraiser, and Nile donates a dozen pots. There are still more pots. </p><p>At last Nile says fuck it, and she takes all the ones that do not spark joy to the Oscar safehouse outside Huesca. She lines them up in a makeshift range, and they all take turns reducing them to brightly colored shards. She’s never enjoyed Joe’s 12-gauge so much. </p><p>Once she has had her fill of pots, she makes Nicky a coffee mug, heavy enough to clout someone if necessary, glazed in pale blues and greens. It holds fifteen ounces, because she’s never seen him this tired. </p><p>And then, at last, they get their shot at de Soto. </p><p>They’re on the green again between classes, keeping up a superficial conversation, when Nile recognizes him from his faculty directory photo, and stiffens. “Where is he?” Nicky asks at once, not turning and not dropping his untroubled expression. </p><p>Nile tracks him, trying to keep her eyes and demeanor soft. “Ten yards, seven o’clock, heading for nine. Blue jacket.” </p><p>He lets out something that would look like a laugh from a distance, and then he checks his watch. “Shit! Gotta go.” His spin, likewise, looks spontaneous but lines him up perfectly with de Soto, now at eight o’clock. He bolts, one more beleaguered grad student who’s late for class. </p><p>Nicky’s shoulder connects with de Soto’s, hard enough to turn him and dislodge the man’s leather satchel. Its contents spill onto the sidewalk. De Soto shouts, but stops short of cussing Nicky out when he disappears into the building. </p><p>“Lo siento,” Nile says as she jogs over. “My friend, he’s usually more considerate.” De Soto sighs and bends to collect his things, but Nile gets there first. “Permítame, por favor.” </p><p>“Eso no es necesario,” de Soto says, but Nile has already planted the phone cable in his bag. She hands it back to him. “Gracias,” he tells her. </p><p>“De nada.” She smiles at him, and when he goes on his way, she gets her phone and opens Copley’s encrypted group chat. &gt; <em> Cable in place</em>. </p><p><em> &gt; Well done</em>, Copley responds. <em> Only a matter of time</em>. </p><hr/><p>For the third time in ten minutes since Nile started playing back the day’s lecture, Joe sighs deeply. Nile pauses it and half-turns to glare at him. “What is it?” </p><p>He closes the book he was pretending to read. “Doesn’t really matter,” he says with forced indifference. “I can’t fault your professors for not having been there at the time.” </p><p>Oh, Christ. She can never take the team to a trivia night. Nile rubs both thumbs beneath her eyebrows at the root of her headache. “And I,” she says, “can’t cite my thousand-year-old roommate as a source in an essay.” </p><p>Joe’s mouth twists. He silently digs a tablet out from the mess of papers on the table. Nile gets back to work, with her earbuds in this time. Andy went to bed early; Nicky has a practicum tonight. Nile half-listens to the lecture--her research on using gum arabic and beeswax as a saturating varnish has taken her down a rabbit trail, with a moustache grooming forum open in one tab and Mapplethorpe’s early Polaroids in another. </p><p>A moment later Joe hands her the tablet. He’s got a JSTOR record pulled up, an article about restoring the gold leaf calligraphy on the Hagia Sophia’s fountain, published in 2012 in a journal she’s never heard of. “Joseph Jones?” Nile reads. </p><p>“In the flesh.” </p><p>She taps through the article. There are, to her mild surprise, things she can use here, mostly about selecting historically authentic sealants that will endure the elements. “This is both the nicest and most narcissistic thing you have ever done for me.” </p><p>Joe’s eyes crinkle. “You’re welcome.” </p><p>A notification appears on the tablet. Nile straightens and pauses the lecture again. “De Soto’s charging his phone.” And the tiny flash drive hidden inside the cable Nile left him is giving Copley access to his camera, his microphone, and his data. </p><p>Joe peers at the screen as Andy emerges from her room, having received the same notification. “How quick can we move?” </p><p>Nile starts looking through de Soto’s text messages, but Andy finds it first. “He’s meeting Marcelo the day after tomorrow.” </p><p>That’s a long time to wait when Nile is already buzzing. It will be worth it, worth the craft of setting this trap just right. </p><p>They have stopped a lot of Marcelos. This is the closest they’ve ever gotten to a de Soto, to the malevolence pulling the strings. It doesn’t surprise her that he is a mild-mannered professor by day, teaching organizational development of all things, or that this enterprise is nothing more than a side hustle for him. Very little can surprise Nile now, but it does--always--disappoint her. </p><p>Somehow she does make it through the next two days of anticipation, until at last she sits in the car on a darkened stretch of road by the docks, waiting as Nicky records night vision footage of de Soto and Marcelo through a zoom lens, and Joe synchronizes it with the live audio from de Soto’s phone, which is always listening now. </p><p>“It would still be faster to kill them both,” Andy says under her breath. </p><p>It would be. And if any part of this goes wrong, if Marcelo or the Spanish criminal justice system fails them, they still can. But if it goes right, they have a chance to crack into something they never would by being executioners. </p><p>The conversation gives them the name of the family of asylum-seekers that paid de Soto their life savings for safe passage and placement, the name of the person to whom de Soto in turn sold them for labor, and the dock number and time. Money changes hands, for Marcelo’s part in things. There is even the crisp sound of euro bills being fanned. </p><p>A moment after de Soto leaves the docks and Marcelo goes back into the cabin of his boat, Joe passes a flash drive forward to Andy. She glances back, and nods once, and they all pull their balaclavas down and get out of the car. </p><p>Marcelo is no fool. In boarding his boat and descending into the cabin, Nile takes two bullets, one glancingly through her arm and one to the kevlar. But she powers through it and gets her stun baton between his ribs, on half charge so as to keep him conscious but knock him down long enough for Andy to speak. </p><p>“Here is what’s going to happen, Marcelo Nunez,” Andy says. She sets the flash drive on Marcelo’s chest, and proceeds en español. “You will take that to the police, tonight. You will confess to everything you have done for de Soto. You will say nothing of us. You will turn yourself in, due to your guilty conscience. Can you guess what will happen if you don’t?” </p><p>Nile absolutely does not smile. She hopes to sound that hard someday. As masterful as Andy is at killing, she is, if possible, even better at being ice cold fucking terrifying. They need to take more opportunities for her to scare people shitless and leave them alive. </p><p>“Si,” says Marcelo, very quiet. He looks--well, stunned. Perhaps he got into this line of work because he never expected anyone to care about what happens to refugees. </p><p>Andy nods, and she goes back up to the deck where Joe and Nicky wait for them. Nile enjoys Marcelo’s expression a moment longer as she listens to Andy’s footsteps, then follows. </p><hr/><p>The next day, she has the great good fortune to be out on the green when the Guàrdia Urbana escort de Soto off-campus. She films it on her phone, and sends it to the group chat. &gt; <em> Phase one complete.  </em></p><p><em> &gt; Go team! </em>says Joe. </p><p><em> &gt; I just whooped in class, </em> says Nicky. <em> I lied and said it was because of a football game.  </em></p><p>After class she takes the Metro home. She enters, triumphant, to find them packing out for phase two, wherein they remove to the Oscar safehouse and wait to see whether anything comes of de Soto’s arrest, whether anyone pays for the suffering they caused, or whether their skillset will be required again. Joe and Andy load pots into orange crates; Nicky is taking the swords down off the wall. </p><p>Nile understood this was the plan. She helped plan the plan. This has all been for the mission, not for her. And yet. </p><p>“No, no, no,” she says. “We cannot leave now. I have a group project due in two days. If I disappear, someone else is going to get stuck with my work on top of their own.” Not to mention the thing they did not consider, back when their distance and safety were the number one priority: that if she and Nicky disappear the same day de Soto is arrested, it would certainly raise someone’s suspicions, somewhere. </p><p>Andy and Joe stare at her, and then at each other. For the first time since she met him, Nicky’s gaze evades hers. Nile chases it down and holds it, beseechingly. At last he says, “Maybe we could stay through the end of the semester, boss.” </p><p>Andy’s eyes flare. “And then what, Nicky? Finish your degree?” </p><p>“Which could save your life someday,” Nile says. That doesn’t endear her to Andy, but she hasn’t made it this long in their company without building up some immunity to Andy’s glares. She presses on. “Andy. Go to the safehouse with Joe. We’ll meet you later.” </p><p>They are, rightly, reluctant to stray from best practices, from the things that have kept them safe in the past. No repeats. Go to ground after contact and make sure all the tracks are covered. Stay in the countryside, the open spaces, not boxed in the city center. Above all, always, do not split up. </p><p>“We’re not splitting up,” Andy declares. And then a curious thing happens. It isn’t that her expression softens, exactly, but the sharpness fades from her eyes. “So it sounds like we’re staying.” </p><p>After a moment’s deliberation, Nile hugs her. </p><hr/><p>Nile can’t bring anyone to the apartment, but she can say yes when Isidra invites her and Vidal and Mercedes to celebrate their finished group project with a home-cooked meal. </p><p>She brings carnations in a pot she glazed with sunset colors. Isidra’s house is two Metro transfers away. She comes to the door and lets Nile in; Vidal and Mercedes are already in the living room. “Para ti,” Nile says, and Isidra exclaims over the flowers and the pot. She takes it from Nile and bustles away to make it the centerpiece of the dining table. </p><p>Nile stops at the wall of family portraits and her eyes catch on one: small, creased, black and white. One woman, three children, and two men with faces she knows very well. They are posed, but hastily, unsmiling. </p><p>“El gran milagro de mi familia,” Isidra tells her upon returning. The woman was her grandmother, the children her aunts and her father. Her grandfather’s dying wish was for their safety. The men, who had fought alongside him, escorted them two hundred miles across the border, often with the children on their backs. In Perpignan, a house and documents were waiting for them. Isidra’s father never saw the men again. </p><p>Well santa mierda, she should have expected this. “Can I take a picture of this? My friends are really into history.” </p><p>“Sí, of course.” </p><p>Dinner is incredible. She begs Isidra for the recipe, and Isidra indulges her; this, too, she photographs for the others. Afterward, Mercedes brings out her own phone. “Everyone smile!” </p><p>Nile does, and at the last second she turns her head, and the light in the dining room is dim enough that this blurs her in the image. “Nile,” Mercedes chides. They already know she hates social media, doesn’t have an Instagram or a WhatsApp. </p><p>“No, wait,” Vidal laughs, and he gets his phone too. “Look. Is this you?” </p><p>He’s pulled up a photo of the horrifying attempted restoration of the <em> Ecce Homo</em>, Christ’s face smeared unrecognizable. Nile groans into her hands. </p><p>“One more,” Mercedes pleads. “Just for me, Nile.” </p><p>She’s pushing it. Staying in Barcelona is pushing it. Her face on someone’s phone, automatically backed up to the cloud who-knows-where, is pushing it. But Nile looks back at Mercedes, and decides some things are worth pushing it. </p><p>On the Metro home, Nile uploads the old photograph to the encrypted group chat. &gt; <em> I go out for an evening and I still can’t escape you assholes.  </em></p><p><em> &gt; That’s right. We’re everywhere. </em> </p><p><em> &gt; Not sorry, Nile. 1939, Copley. </em> </p><hr/><p>It’s late. Finals week looms, and this sort of stress is entirely new: a sour taste at the back of Nile’s mouth and the constant feeling that she has forgotten something. The news Copley sends them each day--that more of de Soto’s contacts have been traced and arrested, that the thread they pulled was just one strand in a web, and it’s becoming much harder for anyone to operate that way in Barcelona--lifts her spirits for a while, but the only thing that will ease the sense of impending doom is to finish her project. </p><p>“Nicky,” Nile says, causing him to start awake over the dregs in his mug. “Go to bed.” </p><p>He squints at Nile and her laptop, and earbuds, and many photocopied references, and life drawing charcoals that she has treated with her varnish blend as proofs of concept. He has his own cramming to do, but he nods and gets up. His hand alights briefly on her shoulder. “In bocca al lupo.” </p><p>“Crepi il lupo,” Nile replies. </p><p>Joe lingers after Nicky is gone, considering her. Nile appreciates them staying up, truly. She can always look to them for solidarity. “You would have been quite good at this,” Joe says. </p><p>“I’m great at this,” Nile says without looking up. “Goodnight, Joe.” </p><p>He goes, smiling. </p><p>She has a long, long time to be an autodidact. To learn history from the people who lived it, and to live it herself until she is a veritable sage. By comparison, by anyone’s reckoning, a letter grade and a handful of credit hours are insignificant, transient to the point of meaninglessness. </p><p>But this isn’t the first thing she has tried just to see if she can, and it won’t be the last. She still has a few things to prove to the woman who died in the desert and the girl who looked at the options available to her and made the pragmatic, fatal choice. </p><p>And it has been nice, these last few months. It hasn’t felt like pretending at all. She’s been busting her ass too much to feel like an impostor. </p><p>Nile says, “You too, Andy.” </p><p>“I’m fine,” Andy says from the couch, and maybe she is. Nile has never seen her in a state other than wakefulness. </p><p>“I’m keeping watch,” Nile tells her. “Go to bed.” </p><p>After another moment, Andy does. </p><p>It’s late. She has miles to go before she sleeps. Somewhere out in the city, a siren wails. Nile keeps working. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cheers for reading! I'm @hauntedfalcon on Tumblr if you want to come yell with me about The Old Guard. </p><p>Massive thanks to @iwritesometimes for betaing. </p><p>This fic's title is from "Barcelona" by Jewel. </p><p>Translations: </p><p>No dejes tus macetas = Don't leave your pots </p><p>Lo siento. Permítame, por favor = I'm sorry. Please, allow me</p><p>Eso no es necesario. Gracias = That's not necessary. Thank you</p><p>De nada = You're welcome</p><p>El gran milagro de mi familia = The great miracle of my family </p><p>Santa mierda = Holy shit </p><p>In bocca al lupo / Crepi il lupo = Into the wolf's mouth / May the wolf die. Italian idiom to wish someone good luck.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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